


Synchronisation

by a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Bittersweet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words/pseuds/a_pocket_full_of_fancy_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't stand others to see his body, to touch his prosthetic, to sleep with him, knowing that a part of his body is connected to the synthetic who allowed his partner to die and leave a widow and child. </p><p>But how can he deny Dorian those things when prosthesis is all that Dorian is?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchronisation

John knows that people don't choose disability, and he knows he shouldn't feel so disgusted by the metal that is now his right leg. He's not actually sure if the woman undressing him is human or android, and where he might have once cared, the unintended side effect of having Dorian as a partner is that the modicum of respect he now affords synthetics allows him to take himself seriously when he's fucking them. Then Dorian can stop scanning his ballsack and they can be done with it.

The woman is gorgeous, brown skin and hair and eyes, she's already dressed only in her underwear and she's dropping his shirt on the floor as she pushes him back against the bed, rubbing her hand over his semi through his pants. She unzips them, drags them down his hips and then –

“Oh!” She says without meaning to. His prosthetic is glowing at the join to his thigh. She's not a sexbot, then, because she'd be programmed not to comment on a customer's body.

Perhaps if she ignores it, he can still get off, but that doesn't seem to be her intention. She bends down to kiss it and he pushes her away, erection gone, attraction snuffed out.

“I should go.” He says and he does, go, gets up and leaves, zipping his fly and grabbing his shirt.

 

 

It's been a couple of months since his failed attempt at getting off, but he can't pinpoint exactly what led them to this moment. He's confused about why Dorian is on top of him, and why he doesn't stop it.

“Do you consent?” Dorian asks. His concern, his care, is real, but the words are programmed because all synthetics must ask consent.

What on Earth are they doing? Is Dorian out of his mind? Doesn't he know how much this is going to fuck things up between them? But all he says is, “Yes.”

They kiss, and it's bizarre. Dorian's taste is completely neutral – not plastic or fleshy, but neutral. His lips are soft, his kisses gentle, insistent, almost chaste. There's no moaning between them; the only sound is breathing and the soft clashing of lips.

Dorian tilts John's head back with a hand in his hair, and kisses down his throat, mouthing unknown words into flesh. His other hand unbuttons John's shirt, works it open and exposes his chest to the slight cool of the air conditioned apartment.

Dorian mouths at his nipple, nuzzles and licks it, and John lets out a huff of air to stifle a groan.

The other man continues his way down, and there's something startlingly genuine in each kiss on every exposed spot of skin that makes John ache with something other than pleasure.

John's never been with a man, mostly for sheer lack of trying, and he's still not sure why he's letting Dorian kiss his cock through his jeans, not sure why his dick is so much harder now than it was for the anonymous woman of a few months before.

Dorian hikes down his pants but leaves his underwear on. He doesn't react to the leg, nor does he obviously ignore it, resting one palm on John's synthetic limb and the other on his real one as he teases his cock through his boxers, taking the head into his mouth, wetting the underwear with warm artificial saliva and sucking, gently, so that the friction is just a hair's breadth away from being too much.

John groans now, writhing, and it's a good thing Dorian has a hand on each thigh, because his hips try to buck without his permission.

“Fuck!” He hisses. “Fuck, please!” He has no idea what he's begging for, but Dorian clearly does, giving one last suck, then a kiss and then pulling away.

It's weird, the way Dorian's breathing elevates for no genuine reason to match his, the way his hands feverishly scrabble at John's boxers before they're gone with his pants on the floor. The way Dorian stops to look at him, look at all of him.

His hand strokes over John's prosthetic leg, from thigh to toe, but John is unable to summon the disgust he so often feels, how dare he, when this is all that Dorian is? How can the man on top of him be less for that, when clearly he is so much more than artificial limbs and subprocessors?

His voice is too raw for what they've been doing when he speaks. “I want to see you.”

Dorian already knows, is already pulling of his work clothes and exposing perfect cyberflesh, taught skin and the perfect amount of muscle, not overly defined but clearly there.

John looks down at his own body, his belly soft from months spent horizontal, but Dorian doesn't care, and apparently, neither does he.

“What do you want from me?” He doesn't know he's going to ask it until he already has, but Dorian doesn't take offence, leaning over him to whisper against his lips.

“Everything.”

Without breaking away from him, Dorian spreads his legs and John feels something warm and slick pressing against his hole.

It feels filthy and a little clinical, having Dorian's finger slide into him with lube that's oozed out of his synthetic pores, but it isn't unpleasant. Sensors in his finger immediately detect John's prostate, and after a few tentative touches he figures out exactly what excites John's neurons the most, stroking in in lazy circles and working in another finger snug beside the first, stretching just enough to sting.

John moans and twists his head, uncertain of what to do. Eventually he turns his face back to Dorian and lets their foreheads bump as he closes his eyes.

The third finger surprises him, hurts slightly, but his cock is jumping every time his prostate is touched, and Dorian moves his fingers independently until the stimulation is constant.

John gasps and pushes down onto the too-light touch, desperate for something more, his own cock leaking precum between their bodies.

He nudges his head past Dorian's to look at the other man's dick, already hard and perfectly sculpted like the rest of him, clear lubricant glistening on even brown skin.

“Please, please,” John kisses him. He will give the everything Dorian asks and he will give more.

“It's okay,” Dorian reassures him, pressing a hand over his chest and kissing down his throat, silencing feverish words. The fingers withdraw and John takes the moment to catch his breath before Dorian's cock is there, nudging in.

The feeling is full but not as uncomfortable as he's been led to believe, and Dorian is there by his ear... Complimenting him.

“You're so beautiful like this, perfect,” His voice is soothing and edged with need in a way no one who was just a computer in lab grown skin could hope to pull off, and John means to tell him that no, he's wrong, that John is broken and deformed and about as far from perfect as humanly possible. But humanly possible means nothing to Dorian, and John wants so badly for it to be _true_ – not his own physical beauty, but for someone to look at his recently wasted muscle and his prosthetic and see nothing less than perfection. His throat is too tight for him to say anything at all, so instead he chokes on _something_ , a sob or a moan, as Dorian's hips move closer and his cock fills the empty space inside of him, almost too full. “Don't think.”

John is obeying, but if he weren't, the irony of someone who is almost pure thought telling him not to over-think things would not have been lost.

Whoever designed Dorian's cock deserves an award, because when he stills to let him adjust, John can feel a throbbing pulse, feel the pull on Dorian's skin as the muscles in the android's abdomen tense.

John looks up to see Dorian studying his face and blushes, breathless.

“Don't be embarrassed,” Dorian entreats as earnest as he's ever been.

He's still looking, observing, his balls brushing against John's ass, which clenches under the scrutiny.

Embarrassed is not the word, not really. John can feel the prickle of badly connected neurons between his prosthetic and what remains of his leg, a reminder that he failed to save his partner, and an even greater reminder of the synthetic that failed them both. An allocation of blame that neither of them can bear to examine further, not here, not like this, not so close and so intimate.

But suddenly John wants to give him that, even if it means letting go of the anger and resentment and misery, just for tonight. He nods his head.

It should be rough sex, he'd thought this would be violent, rutting for release, but Dorian is slow and considerate and his lips are millimetres away, and John finds himself being made love to where he'd expected to be fucked.

“Please!” He begs again.

“I'll give you anything.” Dorian says softly, just barely, mouth already against John's lips. Their eyes are locked, hazel against electric blue, so close they blur in John's imperfect vision but remain clear in his android partner's camera eyes. It makes John want to close them against the feeling of being looked into, but he can't, and something in Dorian's face is tragically beautiful.

“Then give me this.” John can hear the plea in his voice, and Dorian leans in to kiss tears he hasn't cried yet from his cheeks, before pulling out slowly and pushing back in.

That overly perfect cock slides past his prostate and makes him shudder, his hands going to Dorian's arms to cling onto him in a manner that he will attribute to pain he isn't feeling if asked; Dorian won't ask though, doesn't, just lets him have what he needs.

There are more tears for him to kiss away now, even as John writhes and twists as the conscious control Dorian has of the angle of his erection presses it hard up against his prostate.

John grips the cock inside him and pushes down to meet the thrusts and then up again, forcing them into a faster pace, talking in meaningless vowels and sibilant gasps.

Dorian presses his shoulders harder into the mattress, pins him, and then with a precisely controlled acceleration, proceeds to fuck the living daylights out of him.

John's cry might be a scream of shock or pleasure or distress, but he doesn't care, can't think, is coming undone. The hand that pins him down is supporting all of Dorian's upper body weight, the other tracing it's way to where John is spread out beneath him, to fist his aching member in a loose ring of fingers.

John's breaths are all long, whining moans as Dorian runs this thumb over the slit and pumps more precum up and out. He worries the head in time with his thrusts, fingers slick with spontaneously secreted lubricant, faster and faster. One of John's hands is twisted in the sheets, the other is scraping gouges into cyberflesh that will heal of their own accord over night.

He cries and whimpers and thrusts and begs as Dorian pounds him into the mattress, the tension building in his prostate, his balls, until suddenly it's released, spilled out into Dorian's hands and spasmed around his cock as John cums with a wordless cry.

Like clockwork - well, infinitely more advanced than clockwork, Dorian moans and fills him up with hot, slick liquid and collapses onto him.

Sweaty and damp, John clings to him, arms and legs wrapping tightly around Dorian's smooth body as though he might try to run away. His chest heaves and he wills it to be from exertion and not from sobbing, but he can't tell.

Dorian kisses him again, soft lips consistent and not a bit transient as John suddenly realised he feared. Dorian's cock doesn't soften inside of him, will stay hard as long as it needs to, and John isn't ready for him to go.

When he tries to sit up, John holds him tighter. “Don't.”

Dorian settles them more comfortably so that they are both on their sides, face to face, John still impaled on his pulsing cock, the sticky mess of his cum trapped between them. “I'm not going anywhere.” He promises, his hand stroking down John's clavicle, over his nipple, his ribs one by one, his hip, his ass, coming to rest on his prosthetic leg.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Dorian's chest, head tucking under his chin.

Even though Dorian is still touching his synthetic leg, he still feels better than he has in a long time. Calm, grounded. Worthy. Almost human.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you liked this or thought it was too heavy on the angst! (I'm worried this might be a bit heavy for what is essentially porn...)


End file.
